


for when do men weep

by kinpika



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anyway Oberyn Lived :), F/M, Oberyn POV, Westeros was not ready for it, What if fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:06:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22660726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinpika/pseuds/kinpika
Summary: Crowds surge, all at once. No guard could hold back the masses, who wished to see where Ser Gregor lay. It wasn’t until the first man poked a toe in his side, did they realise he would not rise once more. No longer would a breath pass from Ser Gregor’s lips. Guilt and justice were simply a passing thought, as the pit in Oberyn’s stomach grew and grew.Demands were never met by men who called for storm.
Relationships: Oberyn Martell/Ellaria Sand
Comments: 2
Kudos: 40





	for when do men weep

A sweeping hand catches him in the ankles. Stumble, and Oberyn was better than this. Stronger, faster, and in that moment he was as green as Willas Tyrell. Yet there were no stirrups here, just a man who was sharpened to kill, and another who wanted revenge. No thoughts to separate the two into either man, as they were both and neither.

The Mountain roared, as Oberyn misses the hand that reached for him by mere seconds. Push himself away, collecting dust in his path, with a crawl over old stone, _rise, on your feet_. A dare to look back, to see the end of the spear from where it was embedded in the man’s gut. To put too much stock into believing that perhaps, for once, he had misjudged.

Calculate and remember, poison that should not have worked so well, but similarly almost wishing it did. Even as Ser Gregor Clegane willed himself to stand, more of a beast of myth, with the guttural groan. No mortal man was so able, dust and blood and Oberyn no longer saw the sun.

He saw only his hands on the broken shaft once more, pushing his weight forward with one last scream. _ELIA!_ For her! For her children! For the lives this man had torn asunder! Oberyn remembered gold and lions, and the blood that bubbled from Ser Gregor’s lips splattered. Caught him on the face, as there was a great tear.

And the whole world stopped. Held it’s breath as the Mountain’s hands clasped Oberyn’s face. He had not even noticed, for when he looked up, there was no name for what he saw. Just the way it felt, to feel metal cold on his cheeks, slide, to his throat.

“Say her name,” he whispered. Voice hoarse and lost in the silence. “Say it.” _Please_.

A smile that would haunt him. Bloody and broken and empty. Mocking.

“Elia Martell! Say it! _Say her name!_ ”

In his final moments, Ser Gregor Clegane only laughed. Loudly, openly, stilled only when the ground stopped shaking from such a noise. There was no gracious release, no promise of justice. No, for when the Mountain falls, it was a sound Oberyn would hear in his sleep for decades to come. Screech of metal on stone, reverberating up his spine.

It does not bring the surge of strength he so desperately wanted. Just the rage, that came with a scream. His sister’s name, remaining unavenged and worn by his daughter, in honour and glory. Wrapped in gold and buried in foreign land. Oberyn finds his feet, as he stares down at a man who died with a smile on his face.

Demands were never met by men who called for storm.

Crowds surge, all at once. No guard could hold back the masses, who wished to see where Ser Gregor lay. It wasn’t until the first man poked a toe in his side, did they realise he would not rise once more. No longer would a breath pass from Ser Gregor’s lips. Guilt and justice were simply a passing thought, as the pit in Oberyn’s stomach grew and grew.

“He didn’t say her name.” Hollow words, lost in the screams and shouts. Said, once more, to the beat of a drum. To the way that the Lannisters did not linger, as so much to try to talk over the growing shouts and arguments from other members of Council.

Ellaria pulls him by the arm, an all encompassing embrace that was far warmer than how he felt. Her hands at his cheeks now, gentle touch as he was turned, this way and that, wounds inspected and blood brushed aside. Smudge of it across his lips, as her eyes narrowed. Seeing what no one else did.

There were no attempts to placate. Daemon takes the bent shield from him, as the Kingsguard moved in, trying to push the common crowds out the way. Great wall made of their own shields cutting through. “Oberyn, we have to move.”

Slowly, but surely, he unclenches. His jaw, his fists, shoulders steadily shifting back. Once, Oberyn had been foolish to think that such a feat would make him walk taller, feel lighter. Nothing would stop him once he saw to justice — dealt the hand that the gods were so afraid to do. Except now he understood why Doran had advised against it.

Led by the hand, to where only moments before they had stood. Laughing under the sun, wine flowing and the careful application of second and third plans. Lord Tyrion Lannister looked like he had been crying, and Ellaria pushes wine into his hands. “Drink, my love.”

She knew. Of course she did. Ellaria was quicker on the draw than many gave her credit for, with the way she held a hand over his chest. Nails pressing into the soft leathers, eyes trained on him. “ _Drink_ , until you cannot.”

In one fell swoop, Oberyn burns the back of his throat, drinking until it overflows down his chin, another poured, once again. There’s an address he does not hear, innocence fought for and won, to the disgust of everyone. Secondary concerns, to the shake in his hand, how Ellaria pushes his hair from his face. Not stepping away from him, no, not even when there were people demanding an address.

“Imp,” he finally says, slow lick of his lips, eyes not seeing anything true. “It would be best if you joined us in Dorne.”

For his part, Tyrion looked like he could scarcely believe what had transpired himself. Eyes wet, and Oberyn could not muster any feeling to acknowledge the gratitude. “I believe you may be right.” He had not moved from staring down his sister. “Perhaps sooner rather than later.”

“We will not be staying for another Lannister to be crowned.”

Perhaps there was too much bite to his tone. Enough, that even Tyrion looked up at him, curiously, concerned. A fear for his own safety? Wise men sought to protect themselves first. Oberyn did not try to abate those worries, instead focusing on another guzzle of wine, as the blood was wiped from his face.

“Of course, my Prince.”

Oh, but he was in no mood to trade barbs. Wanted to rid himself of the leathers and sun. To find the deepest and darkest place King’s Landing had to offer and. And _what_? For he does not have an answer. To rip at himself and scream and shout and fuck his way into feeling something other than the nothingness of realising, of knowing, that he had not heard the words he so desperately wanted. That the Mountain had laughed until he had died, and would smile his way through the hells that would await him. Oberyn had sworn to hunt the man through them, but he was not there.

Not yet. For he shares one last look at where Lord Tywin continued to sit, with those heavy and calculating eyes. Playing a game of cyvasse with himself. Much like Doran, where the game was only the pieces known of, until such men opened their eyes, and realised just where the world was without them. With a stare over the rim of his cup, Oberyn had already imagined all the different lives and places and times, where the Lannisters would not have been enemies.

They were cold thoughts, buried alongside mother and sister.

Decisions made from times before they even had a chance. Now they had one of their own making, and his countrymen itched to return home. Who would Oberyn be to deny them? Them, and them only.

“We need to make plans to depart,” is what he says, as they are coaxed to return to the Red Keep. “There is no need to stay.” Hushed words as an aside, followed by paramour and squire to where they had been given room. Not a second look back towards where Tyrion had been taken, only a passing thought of perhaps he would be seen in the morning.

Ser Deziel and Ser Arron were not far behind. Standing idle, as Oberyn pulled at the armour. Thrown to the side, one after another. One of them, both of them, pour wine and drink, and he feels their stares in the silence. Daemon offers another cloth, with Ellaria taking it from him.

“Oberyn…”

“I have not finished what I came here for.” Steady words, even as his hands continued to shake. Encouraged to sit at the edge of the bed, as they began to pack bags. “Not at all.”

“You did what no other man could, your highness. A feat in its own right.” Arron speaks, collects the empty cups, and refills. “And if you say we leave, _we_ leave.”

Ellaria drags the cloth across his face, holding him there. “He did not confess.” Strong and sure words, that hurt and pulled, opening wounds that were deeper than skin. Scrapes and bruises on his skin meant nothing when those words exist in his mind.

Wets his lips, and with a shaky breath, Oberyn responds. “No.”

“We cannot stay. We cannot stay another day in their land, especially now that you have won their Lord his freedom.” Simple and precise words, ones he knew but did not admit. “We will have another day, Oberyn, to right the wrongs. Today was not ours. But we shall have another.

“We must have _another_.”

Did she something? Did they all do? Teeth sink into the inside of his cheek, as he clenches, releases. “Ellaria—”

“Is right, Oberyn. Suspicions were cast on us long before they imprisoned the Imp — on you.” Deziel seemed to find his voice, as he bent knee. Stared up at Oberyn, and it would never be said that Dornish soldiers were afraid to speak up. Even at the cost of facing their prince, and telling him he was wrong. “There are far too many eyes on us. You _know_ this. Prince Doran knows this.”

The bed was not to his liking, and the sheets scratched when they should soothe. Oberyn liked the Red Keep as much as he liked Casterly Rock. Except in here, after his knights leave and his squire is dismissed to clean and prepare, does he lay awake. Aware of the aches and the way his body curled into Ellaria’s, her fingers working through his hair.

It does not carry him to sleep. Wine sits too heavy in his gut, rolling as he sits up, head in his hands once more. Knowing that he could spend hours until daylight, finding the moments and precise words to say, to drag the confession out. To have the hand raised towards Lord Tywin Lannister, master in the hand that was dealt to.

 _To_.

Oberyn finds he cannot say her name. Like his tongue betrayed him in forming the sounds, not letting him speak for the one he had not avenged. And after all these years of careful planning, playing the game for the sake of sister and children. Mouth moves, but there are no sounds.

Pain in his chest too great, like it was the first night, of hearing the word of her death. The first night, of rumours of how she had died. The first night, of seeing her wrapped in gold. Oberyn had not wept since those days. Perhaps, it was wrong to say that he would remain dry eyed. For his shoulders shake, and he covers his mouth, stifling the gasps that leave him.

**Author's Note:**

> we all know oberyn was nerfed for being the most powerful man in westeros


End file.
